The Second War
by Mudblood79
Summary: It is the Height of the second war, and like all wars they effect everone. For John Thurman and Peter Obrien, on the other had, this war has become something more... It has become Personal when they find themselves on the very same battlefield.


"_**Hello Darkness my old friend**_

_**I've come to talk with you again**_

_**Because a vision softly creeping**_

_**Left its seeds while I was sleeping**_

_**And a vision that was planted in my brain**_

_**Still remains within the sound of silence…"**_

Simon and Garfunkel- The Sound of Silence

Chapter 1: The Army of Merlin

The lusciously green grass smelled almost sweet with the settling of the evening dew. Far off into the distance was a large snow-capped mountain that was so tall, it seemed to stretch through the clouds high above. A long winding creek gently traced a long snake-like path, which split the earth into two different shores. Further, down stream, the small brook mated with a large, unpolluted, a lake so clear it almost seems as if it were made of a crystal mirror reflected the light blue stratosphere, with shades of crimson, violet and indigo. The cotton candy clouds far above shimmered with orange interwoven with a deep blood red.

However, something was different on this particular evening. Coming out of the northeastern side of a thickly laden forest, over a thousand men all wearing black cloaks, appeared almost as if they had magically materialized out of thin air, thick as fleas. Line after line, column after column. Company after company, the army poured out of the woods, and marched immaculately in-step.

Like many armies before, they had a look of unity, and a common cause to keep them moving, into the unknown fates of battle. Each man had glowing, deep blood red eyes, and the look of utmost hatred carved into their faces.

The one thing set this army apart from others, was the commander. It was not a man but a strange looking animal called a Wyvern. It had the serpent body of a King Cobra, legs of a lion, and wings of a dragon.

"Where is that bloody snake leading us," complained a twenty year-old man with a high squeaky voice. This staffs name was Marcus Haas; he was tall and had a rather petite build about him. He had long greasy black hair that stretched to the middle of his back, and a crooked nose, which looked as if it had been broken on several occasions.

Every step he took, he winced with pain. "We've been marching non-stop since yesterday. My feet are… bleeding."

"Ohh _Boo-hoo,_" A cynical smile, spread across the face of the man next to him. With a deep bark like voice, he said, "Do you see this?" He raised his right hand, and started rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

"It's the world's smallest violin player—oh and do you hear that? It's playing my heart pisses violent coloured slime for you! Go back to your mummy Haas. Nobody likes you anyway."

Haas muttered something inaudible under his breath, and glared at the other.

"What was that? Why don't you speak up like a man."

Still muttering, Haas glared at the man next to him.

"If looks could kill…"

"Not until we find the enemy, my lad…" Spoke a short bulky Irish man in attempts to avoid a fistfight in the ranks. He was an elderly sergeant, who had a round face, bushy grey beard and a nose to match.

"…Until then not a moment sooner. You know our orders. The Dark Lord would not want us to stop. We must keep going until we find the Order and have destroyed them—personally, I don't think it'll happen… Not anytime soon at least."

"Like all Irish, you're always the pessimistic one, aren't you Thurman," responded another voice with a deep accent that was unmistakably Welsh.

"That my lad," answered the sergeant, "is a misconception. We do have optimistic Irishmen; the only problem is we're positive that something is going to i _go /i _ wrong." The men in the formation snickered appreciatively, as the Army continued its march to the Southwest.

"Quiet in the line!" snapped a young Lieutenant. Silence fell among the men, and they continued their march on into the scenic landscape.

Coming out of the Southeast was a much smaller group of men. Almost all of them elderly and appeared wiser beyond their years. Each of them wore a butternut brown robe, with neatly trimmed grey beards, and matching blue eyes, and hoods to cover their grey heads. This army was in fellowship with another army, known as _The Order of the Phoenix_. However, to give themselves a feeling of goodwill, they named themselves "The Army of Merlin."

The self-appointed commander, named Reinnier Alfred Baronies of this group was a tall, bulky, elderly man, with long silvery hair hung down past his knees, and a silver beard, which flowed to his navel. Over his butternut robe, he wore a solid brown outer cloak. In his right hand, he carried a long braided walking staff made from a willow branch

His eyes focused on the horizon. He listened to the peaceful chirping of a sparrow and stared off into the west to admire the beautiful sunset. In Gaelic, he spoke softly, "Keep on the look out men. The Aurors' for the Minister of Magic said, 'a large group of Death Eaters were moving this way.'"

No sooner had Reinnier said this when a shocked man exclaimed, "There they are sir!" and pointed a stiff finger towards the north-west, where a large mass of men lurked.

Reinnier snapped out of his peaceful daze and looked in the direction the man was pointing. Only a few kilometres away he saw the snake like creature coming towards him. He said, "Why did we have to run into those bastards here? This place is too beautiful for what is about to happen here. You mark my words, this place will no longer be remembered for its beauty, but for what happens here today."

A man named Peter O'Brien said, "I agree sir." He was a tall skinny man, with a flat, straight nose, deep emerald eyes, and spoke with a strong Northern Irish accent.

"Form up men," he said to his men in barely a whisper, "and have your wands at the ready." Reinnier gazed off into the distance, and watched as the Death Eaters formed their lines.

The tension bottled up almost to the exploding point as both armies stared each other down. The feeling of apprehension grew so thick you could have easily cut it with a knife. Only two and half kilometres separated the armies.

"Don't cast a spell," Reinnier reminded his men, "Until you can see the glow of their red eyes." Each man, pulled out their wands, and held them at the ready position.

Slowly, they marched towards each other; the distance between them grew shorter, and shorter with every step. There was, no mistaking the fact that each man on both sides felt the tension thicken. Although, every man tried to hide the fear they were feeling. One man tried to hide it with his mouth, another tried to hide it with his actions. However, no matter how hard any of them tried, they were all scared!

Suddenly the Wyvern spoke in common English, "Keel theem!" it hissed, in a strangled high pitched voice. The Death Eaters ran at the opposing army in a deadly charge and a soldier of The Dark Lord's army shouted a curse. The sound of a loud bone-chilling scream of a man who received the full blast of the curse echoed throughout the countryside. Suddenly the scene erupted into total chaos.

"_Avada_ _Kedavra!_"

"_Stupefy!_"

Wand tips illuminated the night sky with jets of green and red light. Men from both sides' crumpled to the ground motionless.

Fiercely, Reinnier yelled, "CHARGE!"

There was an almighty rush as Death Eaters and The Army of Merlin, charged towards each other. Both sides were duelling violently. Men howled with agony as the wounded lay on the ground, some bleeding, others where too disoriented to know what was going on.

A curse that exploded when it hit the ground shook the earth, and sent bodies flying in all directions. This didn't dishearten the Army of Merlin. It looked almost as if they were going to defeat The Dark Army. The Death eaters began lost their footing in the fight and ran in the other direction.

"Forward men!" yelled Reinnier fiercely, in Gaelic. "Get the Wyvern! Push forward, quickly now. Let's get those bloody bastards! To the Dark Lord we go, take no man prisoner!"

"Keel theem… Keel all of theem," hissed the Wyvern. The magical creature huffed up its chest, snapped forward, and made a _"kaaking"_ sound. It shot large balls of fire that moved quicker than a speeding bullet, towards its hated enemy.

Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, the skies above turned pitch black, and a blinding flash of lightning struck in the middle followed by a deafening _Boom! _The ground vibrated so violently that it felt like it was about to split in half.

Another figure appeared in the middle of the battlefield. He had a snake like face, his pupils were vertical slits like a snake, and he had a skeletal appearance. Lord Voldemort had personally arrived at the scene.

Reinnier stepped forward; his face contorted with utmost rage and hatred at the man who stood before him. "I know how to stop you, Tom." He said the last word as a cynical smile started spread across his face.

"You don't know anything Reinnier," said Voldemort, "and you will die in this foolish attempt."

Reinnier raised his staff high into the air and shouted something that sounded like a war cry. An eerie glow ignited from the knob of his staff. A strange noise erupted, it sounded like a jet engine coming to life. Then a crimson coloured streak of light shot forward.

Voldemort raised his wand and a globe of yellow light surrounded him, deflected the curse that shot at him. A strange vibrating sound echoed throughout the grounds.

He then pointed his wand at Reinnier and shouted, "_Crucio!"_

Reinnier, Dodge the curse, and fired another hex at the Dark Lord, in which the Voldemort retaliated, missing Reinnier and hit another man, who exploded.

The two began to duel so violently. Voldemort's wand and Reinnier walking stick began looked like blurs.

Until Voldemort hit his enemy with another Cruciatus curse, Reinnier crumpled to the ground, screaming in agony, almost as if every part of his body was set ablaze.

Voldemort, then turned his wand to the opposing army, yelled another curse, and hundreds of men were hit with the explosion and bodies went soaring through the air. During the confusion, Voldemort grabbed Reinnier, and disapparated from the scene.

The survivors of the blast broke ranks and ran as fast as there legs could carry them. The Death eaters then charged after them, shouting hexes at them, and killing as many as they could.

The survivors reached the forest beyond and a strange sound, which started out softly and then intensified with each passing moment, filled the night's air.

"_ARRROOOO…ARRROOOO…ARRROOO!"_

Peter O'Brien looked at the Death Eater, with both hands held up into the air, chanting this haunting sound. He didn't know why but in a strange way, he felt as if the man who stood before him; the large bulky Irishman named John Thurman was sending his respects for his enemy. The man, who stood only twenty feet away, was not so long ago, his best friend, before he had gone off to join them.

_Damn you, Johnny boy, to hell anyway_ he thought bitterly, and he spat at the ground below his feet. However, another thought crossed his mind; one that he hoped beyond all hope was true. i _could 'old Johnny boy' be trying sending me a message, /i _ He didn't know. Nor did he care at that particular junction of time. Instead Peter turned his back on his former friend, and ran back to join his army.

"_ARRROOOO…ARRROOOO"_

The handful of what remained of the defeated Merlin's Army, disapparated from the grounds, for they had been defeated and needed to inform the Minister of Magic of the loss of their leader.

The battle had been lost, even worse yet, the Dark Lord had captured their commander. He, Reinnier, was an extremely powerful wizard, and he alone held a secret. The time had drawn desperate for the Army to rescue him. For, he alone knew something special that no body else knew. He alone was the only man who remained alive who could help the chosen one: the boy who lived. This boy named, "Harry Potter."


End file.
